Play Tragic
by Shaitanah
Summary: Two-shot. HP/LV HP/TMR. Love is a game for two – and no winner. Harry might think he’s won this round, but his nemesis will always find a way to prove him wrong. Please R&R!
1. Chapter 1

**Title**: "Play Tragic"

**Author**: Shaitanah

**Rating**: PG-13 (major angst and generally depressing atmosphere)

**Timeline**: post-DH

**Summary**: HP/LVHP/TMR Love is a game for two – and no winner. Harry might think he's won this round, but his nemesis will always find a way to prove him wrong. Please R&R!

**Disclaimer**: _Harry Potter _belongs to J. K. Rowling. 

**A/N**: This is very insane, influenced by Matrix and some sci-fi books, generally difficult to read with all the POV and tense switching, HP/GW implications and a crazy concept. Scared ya? Now read! XDDD

**Special Thanks**: to my wonderul beta Mizstorge.

* * *

**PLAY TRAGIC**

_Why would you offer more,_

_Why would you make it easier on me to satisfy?_

_I'm on fire…_

David Usher. _'Black Black Heart' _

_**Dream**_

"I love you," she says as she runs her fingers through my messy hair. 

She plants a gentle kiss on my cheek and I smile automatically. She has nothing to do with this. She'll never know what hit us. To her, these things should remain non-existent…

…because she is the one who doesn't exist.

"I love you, Harry. You know that?"

"I love you too, Ginny."

She falls asleep. She sleeps so soundly; the rise and fall of her chest is so real, so _alive_. I can't bear to look at her. I hate her for being a simple illusion; I love her for being the only image of the woman I used to love that I have left. I escape the bedroom that looks like a prison and wander off into the kitchen. I've learnt not to let insomnia disturb my nights. I drink a cup of chamomile tea and nibble at my finger thoughtfully while flipping through the evening newspaper. It doesn't mean anything. It's a stupid make-believe about the non-existent politics, culture, sports and gossip, but the ritual of looking through the press is strangely relieving. Simply because it's a habit.

Our children grin and wave at me from the photos when I enter the living room. We are alone, Ginny and I. 

I make sure she's asleep and walk out into the starless night. I halt only by the bridge and come closer to the handrail to take a better look at the dark water splashing in its granite bed. Slowly, soothed by the barely audible song of the water, I fall asleep.

In the morning, when the sky is gentle blue with a tinge of gold, his voice welcomes me back to the world of the living. 

"You sleep like a horse," he laughs. I never liked his laugh. It is too senseless, deprived of individuality. He laughs because he knows it would be fitting at the moment, not because he really feels like doing so.

I blink at him sleepily and cast my eyes down at the river. "Good morning."

"You are not mad anymore," he says. It's not a question; he knows how I feel better than I do.

_The first time I noticed there was something wrong with my life was after the Hogwarts Express left Platform 9¾ taking away my junior son into his first year at the School of Witchcraft and Wizardry. It was a mere nothing, just a pause in the conversation, but it made me turn and look at Ginny – and notice that her face was as if frozen. I couldn't explain it to myself even if I tried. She smiled at me then as if nothing had happened. It had been nineteen years since Voldemort's demise._

_It took me two years to figure out what was going on. Those things – I call them glitches – kept resurfacing. I was afraid to delve deeper. Afraid I'd have to take the road and come across the edge of 'the thirteenth floor' where there would be nothing._

_I did take the road. It brought me to his doorstep. He owned a book workshop in Diagon Alley. It smelled thickly of old paper, leather and potions. _

"_It's pointless to keep the mask if you already know everything," he said. I expected him to change his looks, to revert back to his serpentine self with scarlet eyes and pallid skin, but he remained a handsome man with no particular distinguishing features. If I met him in the crowd, I wouldn't recognize him._

_I panicked. I attacked and he shoved me into the wall, books toppling down from the shelves all over me._

"_It's not happening," I murmured desperately to myself. "It's just not happening!"_

"_Oh, so you think that now that you know it is unreal you can control this place?" Voldemort chuckled dryly. "You are still so naïve. You are sleeping, Harry. It's just a dream."_

"_Since when?" was all I could think of at the moment._

"_You died. I killed you in the Forest, but somehow… you refused to leave. You never give up, do you, Harry? I couldn't make you go away, but I could at least keep you dead for the rest of the world."_

_I recalled vaguely that moment of death. I had spoken with Dumbledore. I had come to and told Narcissa Malfoy her son had been alive. I had been carried to the castle by Hagrid._

"_Yes and no," Voldemort said, having easily figured my thoughts out. "It was all a dream. The twenty-one years of your life that followed, your marriage, your children, your job, your friends… I have won, Harry."_

_I didn't hear him. I stormed out of the workshop – not because I had to run away, but simply because I needed a change of air. I had it coming. Ever since I noticed the first glitch, that frightening vacant expression on my wife's face, I knew…_

"You're right, Voldemort," I say placidly. "I guess I should thank you. These years have been wonderful."

He eyes me in contemptuous suspicion. He doesn't like making presents, and I've practically told him such life was a beautiful gift.

"Tell me, why did you do this? You could have made me suffer. You could have killed everyone I love or made me battle you for all eternity. But this is the kind of life I've always dreamt of."

"I liked watching you degrade from a hero to a commoner," Voldemort chuckles. There is no cruelty in his eyes. He doesn't seem to mock me, but simply answers my question. "Who you were, Hero of the Wizarding World, and who you are now are entirely different people. I wanted to see the change. I wanted peaceful life to destroy you. You are not so different from me, Harry. By the time your hair turned grey, you would be praying for another war. Your dear Dumbledore with all his pacifism couldn't bear the thought of dying in his own bed."

He turns his back on me and starts walking away. Perhaps he's expecting me to follow. I stay where I am, too flustered to move. 

* * *

She has been my entire life for over twenty years, yet now I feel that I pull away from her. She's not here. She's not real. The real Ginny is either dead or imprisoned in Azkaban. I have to let go of my fictional wife. 

She puts her head on my shoulder; I close my eyes and let the fragrance of her hair and the soft tune of the radio carry me away. This might be our last night together. I'm not sorry that I won't see the kids. It's easier to let go of that which you don't see.

"I love you, Harry," Ginny murmurs dreamily. I return the words habitually, kiss her temple and whisper in her ear: "Sleep."

And then I go back to the workshop. Voldemort lowers the wand with which he was fixing the ancient cover and gestures for me to sit down. In spite of my business I can't hold back a question: "Why books?"

"You see, Harry, I'm not really Lord Voldemort," the man replies without delay. "I'm more like a projection. Of both your minds. Thanks to him, I call myself Voldemort and keep you here. Thanks to you, I act like a guide ready to answer whatever question you have."

"Then…" I pause and can't help but keep staring at his handsome face. Perhaps this is what he might have looked like if he hadn't sunk neck-deep into the Dark Arts. I want to touch his dark hair that falls in a smooth wave over his alabaster forehead. "You can demolish this world, right? Take it all down."

He nods. "Why would you ask about that?"

I smile sadly. I don't want to explain. He doesn't press. He doesn't even ask what I want instead. But he won't let me sleep either. I can't stop dreaming after two decades.

The world as I know it disappears in a blink of an eye. For a moment there is nothing but darkness. I hold my breath. It's neither cold nor warm. I realize that the chair I've been occupying is actually a huge box and there is a slit between its side and the cover. I dip my hand inside. My fingers drown in some dry grainy mass. I take a handful and try to take a better look at the substance. These are seeds. Ordinary garden seeds, tiny and brownish. I scatter them about and watch the faint glow that they emanate fade peacefully in the velvet dark. And then they sprout. A huge enchanted forest bursts into life around me. I lose myself in the showers of green, blue, purple and yellow; the colours rain down on me in a fluorescent waterfall.

"Will you come?" I whisper. For a person who has just destroyed his last chance for a normal life I feel strangely calm and confident.

The forest doesn't need me to be more specific; it replies in Voldemort's voice, slightly distorted, as if transmitted through a damaged sound system: "Why would you want me, Harry?"

I keep asking myself that question. I am silent for hours, watching drops of dew glide over the thick oversized leaves. Finally I say that if I can't bear to look at the ones I love I'd have to choose the company of the one I hate. He is the element of control; he has to be present in my personal Matrix. 

"Do you like my forest?" I inquire as we walk side by side along a narrow path covered in yellowish grass.

His lips curl in distaste. "It's too cheerful. Much like yourself."

"Am _I_ cheerful!? Huh!"

I feel empty. All I have is the forest and my enemy who is not even my enemy but some tiny part of him. I wonder what traits of his are real. His love for books, his composure, his intimidating look… Oddly enough, I appreciate his company because he reminds me of all the people I used to know.

"You are pathetic," Voldemort chuckles expressionlessly. "You seek solace with the only person you truly hate."

He lowers himself beneath a tree and looks at me with a hint of compassion in his eyes. Compassion? No… Not even this alien kind of Voldemort would ever feel something so _human_.

I place my head on his lap and shut my eyes. Coma or not, people don't live too long. Time doesn't matter here anymore. All I have to do is to wait for my organism to wear out. Maybe in death I shall be happier. 

A touch snaps me out of my sad reverie. Warm fingers brush against my cheek, behind my ear, run through my hair. Without looking at him, I rub my face against his leg, the rough fabric of his trousers grazing my cheek, and suddenly he leans into me and silences whatever protestations I have with a rough kiss. He sucks me into it, coercing me to respond, and no matter how banal it sounds, the kiss steals my breath away.

"You're beautiful when I know you belong to me." His voice slithers through me, igniting me; I taste the half-forgotten feeling in the kiss, the real Voldemort, the darkness, the menace. There's more of him with me than he thinks.

I like it that he's here. There are days (if days are applicable to the way the time goes here) when we sail the vast oceans of grass in silence; days when we talk about anything and everything and never seem to grow tired; days when we lie on the warm ground next to each other; days when our bodies melt into one and my entire world becomes a universe of kisses, bites, gentle strokes and passion-strained sighs.

We discover new fields, jungle, rivers every day. One day he stops in the middle of a wheat field, throws his hands up in the air and raises his head to taste the first drops of rain on his lips.

"Harry, do you know what this is? It's a world after Apocalypse. I've always wanted to see it!"

"You could have made it a long time ago."

He looks at me. There's a small smile blooming on his lips. "I was waiting for the right person to play with."

I can't hold back a grin. Coming from him, it's almost like…

_Something's wrong_. Our eyes meet. He looks at me and _through_ me. His eyes flash crimson; it's almost like he _knows_… but how can he? I've done everything according to their instructions. I let my mood fill this world, I played along, I…

_**Interlude**_

"_Aguamenti_!"

A powerful jet of water thrust in his chest. It hurt him as if it were solid. Harry awoke with a scream, tears splashing from his eyes. Water washed all over him. The world around him narrowed down to darkness drenched in water as he squeezed his eyes shut and let the sound of his own ragged breath consume him. 

A woman's voice was calling to him. He didn't want to open his eyes, but she placed her warm fingers on his quivering hand and forced him to look at her.

"Harry, are you all right?"

"F-fine," he drew out through gritted teeth. "Wh-what happened?"

Hermione's soft brown eyes blazed fiercely. "You fell _asleep_, that's what happened! How could you be so irresponsible!? If you lose control of the dream he might wake up, and you know it!"

Harry blinked, adjusted his glasses and breathed heavily: "I remember. I'm sorry."

He wiped his face dry and smoothed wet streaks of hair over his temples. He felt tired, weakened by the night watch by the sleeper's bed. His duty was to hold the spell that kept Voldemort stable in the coma that came as a result of the backfired Avada Kedavra. Harry refused to understand why the spell hadn't killed him. 

"Go home," Hermione said with a frown. "Have some rest. You look terrible."

Harry cast a single glance at the sleeper, wrapped his cloak around him and Disapparated.


	2. Chapter 2

Title: "Play Tragic"

**Title**: "Play Tragic"

**Author**: Shaitanah

**Rating**: PG-13 (major angst and generally depressing atmosphere)

**Timeline**: post-DH

**Summary**: HP/LVHP/TMR The truth is revealed. Harry builds a new world only to realize he has built a prison. But the truth comes a few seconds too late. Please R&R!

**Disclaimer**: _Harry Potter _belongs to J. K. Rowling.

**A/N**: Thank you so very much for your reviews! I love you all, guys! I know it was weird and confusing, so here's part 2. Hopefully, it will clear things up. The fic is a two-shot, so this is the conclusion.

**Special Thanks**: to my wonderul beta Mizstorge.

* * *

_**Part 2**_

"_I am the Architect. I created the Matrix."_

Matrix Reloaded

_**Journal Entry: Hermione Granger**_

"I never considered the notion of ethic to be applicable to someone like Lord Voldemort. That's why I didn't protest when a group of scientists from St Mungo's suggested that he take part in the _Echo_ project. It's an advanced scientific magic experiment that involves profound exploration of brain functions, rapid eye movement and dream control. It's been five years. Fresh out of the med school, I was asked to join the project.

I never told Harry that it was one of the main reasons I chose to become a doctor. I had to keep an eye of both of them since Harry had grown so deeply involved in it as well.

We chose Harry as a model. We projected his image into Voldemort's dreams, allowing them to form a common dream world which would give Voldemort the impression he was still awake and active. We thought we'd represent the War. Then Voldemort's fantasy began to take over. We encountered an obstacle we could not overcome. His mind refused to give in to our studies. We were coerced to let go and watch passively for the time being while he created his own reality, that of Harry's dream.

He dreamt he had won and taken Harry as a prisoner. He reversed his own condition (which gave me an idea he might have been aware of his predicament) and constructed an inner dream world for Harry out of his coma-induced visions.

He watched passively over Harry's life until he got bored. The Harry in his visions seemed to have learnt that he was sleeping and demanded that the world was taken down. He also seemed to have formed a close personal bond with Voldemort which is a matter of great concern for me since it affects the real Harry as well.

Yesterday the _Echo_ project was temporarily shut down due to an unforeseen mistake and a threat of accidentally waking the test subject up. The effect of the curse that served fundamental to the comatose condition seems to have worn off in five years so we have to maintain the coma artificially. I don't know if we will ever resume the experiments. Even in a dream-initiated lucid dream it is highly dangerous to deal with Voldemort. I'm scared for Harry, he seems to lose control of his emotions…"

* * *

Harry leaned against the white hospital wall and watched Hermione fill in the last chart. The place was full of odd scents and blissfully empty of needles, scalpels and all the sharp metallic objects that were necessary at common Muggle hospitals. Harry had never heard of scientific magic before the start of the _Echo_ project and was initially intrigued and puzzled by it. The _Echo_ test centre happened to be something between St Mungo's and a Muggle hospital. Disappointing.

"We had kids back in that world, you know," Harry murmured. Hermione pretended not to have heard him. He repeated it louder and elaborated: "Ginny and I. There were three. Two boys and a girl."

Hermione finished the chart, put it away and turned to look at him. It was hard to tell whether she wanted him to go on or to shut up.

"So did you and Ron," he said quietly.

He knew he shouldn't have said that. Hermione pursed her lips and uttered in a steely voice: "All right, Harry, that's enough," and motioned for him to sit down on the bed. He did so and she proceeded to examine him. The examination went on in silence. A soft glow on the tip of Hermione's wand mesmerized Harry.

"You're exhausted," she said poignantly. "You have drained yourself with these watches. We never asked you to give it so much time. You've grown too attached to him. I don't know what it is that fascinates you so much: some ridiculous idea that you can change him or the fact that you can reconstruct anything in that world, but it's dangerous, Harry! The person you associate with there is only a projection. He's not the one who might wake up here!"

"I don't feel so lonely there," he answered frankly. "I feel needed. Even if it's only as a prisoner."

"You're doing this because you believe you can re-write history. But that's impossible!" Hermione snapped, her voice became a scream. "Do you understand me? You're never getting Ginny back and I'm never going to see Ron again!"

He wanted to slap her. He had to look away from her in order to restrain himself. He had never been this angry with her.

"I spoke to Doctor Otis this morning," Harry informed her casually. "He believes the experiment may be resumed in a couple of days."

With that, he got up and walked to the door. He thought he heard a restrained sob from Hermione. He could relate to her condition only too well. Like her, he had lost his beloved. Like her, he had only person to turn to and he couldn't believe she was going to let him down.

"What were their names?" Hermione asked quietly before he walked away.

Harry smiled sadly. "Rose and Hugo."

* * *

_**Dream**_

I roll my piece of parchment and place it carefully on the edge of my desk along with others. The teacher swings his wand and the parchment levitates towards his desk. We are free to go.

I halt by the door, looking for someone, and I know he's already out. Of course.

He greets me with his usual arrogant smile that goes so well with his handsome features, his dark intelligent eyes, his soft hair. Everything about him is perfect. Even if he had any flaws, I couldn't remember them, that's why here, in my mind he is the most beautiful person in the world.

"Never try to copy from me again, Potter," he says harshly and teasingly at the same time.

He's not a good person. He's competitive, and strong, and self-centered. I couldn't change that because that's how I knew him. It would have been wrong to change him too much.

But for some reason, I think he likes me. That's why despite being a typical loner, he doesn't drive me away. He welcomes my presence like something standing to reason. We never talk much, but we sit together in class and at dinner, our beds are next to each other, and sometimes he comes to watch me play Quidditch (it's a habit I can't give up even in another world).

I promised Hermione I'd be more careful. I sleep regularly at home so that I don't switch off on duty and I take a two-month break in summer when Tom goes back to Riddle Manor for holidays. I saw his parents once. I was captivated by his father's startling beauty and his mother's smile, suddenly warm and caring for a Gaunt.

This year, now that we've taken our OWLs, Tom leans into me and whispers conspiratorially: "So, Potter, any plans for the summer?"

This is likely to kill me and invoke some worldwide disaster; nevertheless, I look at him boldly and ask: "Got any suggestions, Riddle?"

Back in the real world it's time to leave. I smile at Hermione and give the key to the lab back to her. I wonder if she honestly believes it can stop me. I catch a glimpse of myself in the mirror. I look healthier than I did during the first phase of the experiment. I dare hope I'll look like that in autumn as well because I am still afraid to lose Hermione to the only thing can truly tear us apart: _dreams_.

"It's beautiful here," I breathe shyly as we enter the Manor. Tom shrugs casually. I bet he wants to point out how accustomed he is to all that luxury; to me, this unnecessary gesture seems quite touching.

Days go by. I don't ask myself what I'm doing anymore. I talk to Tom almost as honestly as I talk to myself. I don't miss my parents, I don't miss my friends, I don't miss Ginny. The last face that remains haunting me is Hermione's, but I know she will soon be erased as well. I've created this for myself, not for him. I can't lie anymore.

The only thing that justifies me is that he is also my creation.

* * *

He presses me against the soft drapery on the wall and brushes his hands along my body. He leans into me; his lips slide down my neck, his breath lies in warm steam upon my skin. He looks up quickly, flashes me a grin and captures my lips in a gentle, yet demanding kiss. I forget that we are standing in the hallway. Any minute anyone (including his mother) might pass us and this isn't exactly what I want them to see us doing.

Nevertheless Tom always chooses places like this. He probably views it as another complex challenge.

And so I shudder against him, tearing off the clothes, as my body is desperate to feel him, skin to skin. He curls his fingers around my wrist and presses my hand against the wall. Our fingers intertwined, we move in fever of kisses, bites, scorching sighs until my throat is sore with harsh moaning, my lips are swollen with kisses and I'm pretty sure I'll never forget the feeling of him inside me.

The world comes to an end insensibly.

We stand under the rain, half-naked, full of energy and deliriously happy. Tom squints with pleasure as he feels the soft streaks of rain run down his cheeks. He holds his hands out and laughs quietly.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" he asks. I grin in return. "Too bad it's not real."

Something inside me breaks. Not immediately, no. It's more like a gentle swaying into the abyss. You know that something horrible _has already happened_, yet your mind still refuses to register it.

With a great effort, I keep my face devoid of any emotions.

"How long have you known?"

"Two years," Tom replies. I swallow a gasp. "I like it here, though. But there's one thing I don't understand." He sucks on his index finger, licking off a droplet of rain. It tastes like pole. Tom looks dangerously adorable that way. He fixes his dark eyes upon me and asks: "Aren't you tired of this game, Harry?"

There's a lump in my throat. I move away from him slowly. "I need to go."

"No, you don't."

Now he's laughing. I feel like I've woken up. I've been his hostage all this time. Every time I thought I was in control he was getting closer and closer to me, weaving the net that would keep me here. How could I be so stupid!?

"I don't know what you're doing with me up there." He glances at the sky. It's a funny habit, incredibly human – to blame anything on the heavens. Right now the _Echo_ is his heaven. "But I can tell that you've exceeded your limit of such visits when you accepted my invitation. You're weak, Harry, and you're growing weaker with each passing moment. Is it even worth it? Did you think you could change me or something? I'm grateful to you, though. Without you it would have been boring as hell here."

I peer at him, hoping to find but a hint of He Who Must Not Be Named in him. But no scarlet eyes, no slit-like nostrils, no papery skin. I've known this boy for years now. I've known him from the Chamber of Secrets all the way back to my childhood; from Professor Dumbledore's studies; from our sunny days at the illusionary Hogwarts.

"We lie to the ones we love most of all," Tom shrugs. I wonder what he means. He winks at me and holds out his hand. "Come on, Potter. If by your design I'm young again, I might as well enjoy it for now."

I follow him as though in a dream. 'Idiot,' I chastise myself weakly. 'It _is_ a dream. If you had just listened to Hermione… Perhaps your problem is that you love too much. You love Ginny, even the memory of her, so much that it still hurts after – what… 10 years? You love Hermione and faintly hope you can forget Ginny and she can forget Ron and you two can just… You love the ghost you helped create. And you never loved yourself enough.'

"Where are we going?" I ask impassively.

Tom takes time to reply. I can feel a soft smile spreading on his lips.

"Home."

* * *

_In you the wars and the flights accumulated._

_From you the wings of the song birds rose._

_You swallowed everything, like distance._

_Like the sea, like time. In you everything sank!_

_It was the happy hour of assault and the kiss._

_The hour of the spell that blazed like a lighthouse._

Pablo Neruda. _'A Song of Despair'_

_January 24 – February 14, 2008_


End file.
